


e.c.l.s.s.

by locusts



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locusts/pseuds/locusts
Summary: “You should know that this is a temporary solution to a pervasive problem.” He turns away, because eye contact with Hilbert is rarely ever prolonged. “Some people aren’t equipped for deep space.” He says this focusing on a wall.The corner of Eiffel's mouth twitches. He lowers his hands cautiously. Alexander Hilbert, ever the psychoanalyst. “And you are?”“I fare better than you.”
Relationships: Doug Eiffel/Alexander Hilbert
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	e.c.l.s.s.

**Author's Note:**

> "but why no zero-gravity?" it's better this way and you know it.

Hilbert doesn’t look up when the door to the lab slides open. The only indicator that he’s been disturbed in any way is the slight downward twitch of his mouth — Eiffel notices. Eiffel doesn’t say anything, and in an uncharacteristic and unprecedented change of character he finds that he doesn’t feel the need. 

It only takes four steps into the laboratory for Eiffel to be in a position where he can effectively loom over Hilbert from behind. They’re still keeping up the act. At the intrusion, Eiffel is rewarded with a slight tense of the shoulders, but Hilbert relaxes immediately afterwards. He tries to, at least. On the whole, Hilbert has the appearance of working diligently. It’s an act, not even a convincing one at that. 

This is the only course of action Hilbert has left. Expert use of nonverbal communication, the message strikingly clear: _go away_. Through trial and error he had learned that reprimands wouldn’t take, not with Eiffel. Somewhere along the line he had resigned himself to this, hoping in vain that one day, just once, Eiffel would get bored and wander off. Find another victim — possible, but unlikely.

Eiffel is stubborn, he knows this about himself. These frequent — twice, three times a week, usually — escapades to Hilbert’s laboratory provided an easy disconnect from typical U.S.S. Hephaestus living, and nothing was more coveted. He couldn’t just _stop_. Where else did he have to go? 

The comms room is unbearable, sometimes. Terrifying, although Eiffel would never admit it. There’s nothing quite like it. It’s like sinking, more like being consumed whole by something invisible. It, whatever _it_ is, settles over his senses when there’s nothing else to occupy him, when he doesn’t have his guard up. When he flips a switch to turn the static off, and only the hum of machinery, the sound of the Hephaestus working, the buzz of vital life support remains — that’s when it gets him, that’s when he’s paralyzed.

He can only look out through the observation window, straight into a deep, deep _nothing_ . He feels as if he’s standing on the precipice above something terrible and unknowable, a bottomless drop into oblivion or whatever’s worse. Yes, it’s terrifying, but it’s not visceral. Part of him doesn’t rebel, _that’s_ why he remains completely still. Another voice screams at him, urges him to kick at something, or curl into himself, to do _something_ , anything, but the body disobeys. 

Fine, whatever. Eiffel doesn’t like to spend too much time in the comms room. Hilbert’s lab isn’t too far to go. 

The mad scientist equipment has been meticulously cleaned and stowed away. Various bulky monitors hooked up to even bulkier machinery are turned off, blank screens lying in wait. In the midst of the organized tangle of wire and plastic tubing, Hilbert sits across from a ridiculously old-looking computer, one hand propping up his head. Eiffel glances at a yellow pad of paper at his side, the topmost page covered in an angry, hastily scrawled mix of decimals and Cyrillic. (Somehow, it comforts Eiffel to know that Hilbert’s handwriting is awful.)

He’s really not working at all. He’s not doing _important_ work is the thing. He just alternates between staring at the screen displaying data-points and indecipherable text in small print and his own notes. Very obviously stuck on something Eiffel couldn’t possibly understand. He stands and looks on anyway. 

A minute has passed, or maybe ten. On top of everything else, deep space exploration has also been generous enough to warp Eiffel’s sense of time — lucky him! Neither of them have spoken yet. Hilbert carries on with his strange dance of pretending to work when there’s nothing to do. 

The stillness isn’t uncomfortable. How can it be when there’s no real stillness, no real silence? Eiffel has had a dull electronic hum reverberating within his cranium for exactly one year, two months, and twenty-one days. He’s all too aware. He’s desperately, frustratingly, painfully aware of the pleasant space station ambiance. Vents pump precious breathable air into the laboratory, and Eiffel hears it happening. 

He takes a conscious breath before he speaks. He smiles, too, behind Hilbert’s back. 

“You know what?” The words fizzle into the static as soon as they’re spoken. They don’t sit. “The first thing I’ll do when I get out of here is sit in a field and listen to the sweet, sweet sound of _nothing_ for a while.”

Hilbert makes a sound that Eiffel can only categorize as an annoyed huff. A non-answer.

“Any thoughts? Comments? Concerns?” Standing at his side now, Eiffel bends down to peer into Hilbert’s face. “C’mon, give me something to work with here.” From this angle, Eiffel vaguely wonders how late it really is. He didn't check before he left the comms room. Hilbert looks impossibly tired, and maybe Eiffel should feel bad about this. “You’re usually a little bit more entertaining than this.”

Hilbert sits up in his office chair just slightly, still not looking at Eiffel. “I am sorry that I can’t put on a show for you today,” he says. The contemptuous address of _Officer Eiffel_ is skipped, but Eiffel feels it in spirit. He mutters his timeless “Am busy” before pretending to focus all of his attention on the work that he’s supposed to be doing. 

Hilbert is bad at lies that are this small, this petty. He’s generally bad at behaving like a regular human being, like, for example, the type that can be so absorbed with a task to the point of complete distraction. Eiffel knows two things about Hilbert for sure: he’s _smart_ , smarter than anyone he’s ever met, and he’s alert, a scientific observance taken to an extreme. He can’t just ignore things, he can’t turn off that part of his brain. It goes against his makeup. 

“You’re really not,” Eiffel counters, with an unintended edge. This actually makes Hilbert look up, his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond. “I’ve seen you when you’re ‘busy’,” he adds, maybe a little too quick.

A moment for Eiffel’s audacity to set in. Hilbert’s exasperation happens in stages. His head ducks down, maybe he says something to himself. Whatever it is, Eiffel doesn't hear. He doesn't have the chance to think twice about it, because Hilbert comes back up ready for a confrontation. “What are you _doing_ here, Eiffel?” he asks, on a frustrated exhale. (He's really playing the hits today — Eiffel has heard this one countless times before.) Hilbert turns in his chair to face Eiffel fully, almost indignant, and Eiffel could laugh at the ridiculous gesture. Hilbert continues, “Even you must know that you serve no purpose here.”

It’s a redundant statement. Both he and Hilbert know that he’s not here to _be useful_. Eiffel just stares and laughs, once. 

Hilbert stands as he speaks, and Eiffel assumes that this is because he hates to have to look up at him. Eiffel takes a step back, retaining some levity. “I know what it is, Eiffel.” He’s bordering on accusative. All that’s missing is the pointing finger. “You’re bored, you’re _lonely_.” He says the word with vague disapproval. “You want to talk to someone, anyone, but pestering Minkowski can only go on for so long and wasting time with Hera gets old after a while too, doesn’t it?” 

At this, Eiffel can laugh some more. “You caught me!” He lifts both his hands in surrender. “How d’you figure it out?”

Hilbert is unmoved, as always. “You should know that this is a temporary solution to a pervasive problem.” He turns away, because eye contact with Hilbert is rarely ever prolonged. “Some people aren’t equipped for deep space.” He says this focusing on a wall.

The corner of Eiffel's mouth twitches. He lowers his hands cautiously. Alexander Hilbert, ever the psychoanalyst. “And you are?”

“I fare better than you.” And that’s it. No further invitation. It’s almost anticlimactic. Never expect Hilbert to be an engaging conversation partner for longer than three sentences. 

Hilbert turns his attention towards his desk like he’s about to get back into his work, but then stops, makes a quiet noise of frustration instead. He grabs the yellow pad, slides it into an accordion file hanging off the wall, and otherwise begins the process of closing up shop for the night. Or maybe this is preparation for another thing entirely. 

Whatever the case, Eiffel doesn’t want to leave just yet. How can he? He feels as if he’s on the cusp of something, and Hilbert needs to be dragged back to the precipice with him. 

Hilbert moves without making a sound. Eiffel just watches, stepping out of his way. They haven’t spoken for, what, 30, 50 seconds? But, oh, it’s not _quiet_ , and now he’s back to the original issue. It’s like an itch he can’t locate. 

Today, Eiffel had stumbled out of the comms room wheezing. Five — ten, twenty? — minutes ago when he twisted the handle of the lab door, his hand was still shaking. Eiffel had stared long enough to see the stars move, cross over each other, while the endless black seemed to extend beyond them, rushing forward to envelop him. Eiffel could only sit, petrified, being forced to accept an eternity of staring out into infinity while the constant buzz of nothingness dulled all sensation. While the hum killed him one infinitesimal vibration at a time. Not really his idea of a fun night. 

He couldn’t tell how long he stayed like that. Hera never checked in on him during that time, and to Eiffel that almost felt like betrayal. It was a message from Minkowski over the intercom that got him out. Eiffel’s sure that there’s some station duty he’s neglecting at this moment. He hadn’t actually heard what she said.

Take two. When Hilbert looks up from rifling around in a small compartment, Eiffel makes sure that he’s standing in his way. Hilbert has to stop whatever he’s doing, already not trusting whatever he's about to say. 

Eiffel makes himself smile before he speaks. “I can’t help but feel like you set yourself up as a last resort just then.” Hilbert doesn't relent in his glare, because Eiffel's still standing his way and nothing that he could say could possibly be of use to him. Eiffel understands this. He just has to push a little harder. “You put yourself below Minkowski and Hera on my list of ‘people I like to bother’. You underestimate just how _darn_ fun you —”

Hilbert’s impatience resurfaces, he interjects with more bitterness than necessary. “I don’t have anything for you today, Officer Eiffel.” Right, there it is. “I don’t know what makes you think I do, ever.” He anchors himself, slows his speech so that it’ll really get through Eiffel’s thick, American skull. “ _You are not wanted here_. How many times must I say it?”

“Just _listen_ to me, will you?” Eiffel’s stand loses momentum after he blurts that out. What _does_ he want to say, really? “Listen,” he starts again. Maybe he sounds a little desperate. He tries to relax, to slow down. “I’m really not too keen on getting back into the comms room _just_ yet, so —” Eiffel breaks off on his own.

Hilbert remains unimpressed. Silent. Eiffel has to finish his thought.

So, Eiffel doesn’t perform well under pressure. He makes stupid decisions, takes unnecessary risks. He takes a step forward, invading Hilbert’s hermit version of personal space. 

“Knowing my own brilliant mind, I think that I can think of _something_ for us to do instead of —” He makes a flimsy gesture with his hand. ”— working on your nonexistent science fair project.” This _is_ desperate, this is uncouth. Eiffel’s too embarrassed to even look Hilbert in the eyes as he says it. 

When he flicks his gaze over, Eiffel finds that Hilbert is looking at him as if he were some poor wild animal that had just limped into his laboratory. “What are you…” He just trails off. More suspicious than confused. The gears are still turning.

What an opportune time for such a vague urge from the deepest recesses of Eiffel’s mind to make itself known. A year, two months, and twenty-one days is what constitutes as a _long fucking time_ in Eiffel’s book. A long time to be stuck with only two other people and one kind-of person. Very few people to occupy the mind. So, Eiffel had to make use of what was available to him. Can anyone blame him?

Oh, but this could ruin him. It most certainly will. He steps closer, placing a sure hand on the tall desk to his side. Fucking disaster in the making. Hilbert doesn’t step back, he only stares him down, like in a stand-off.

“Tell me, doc.” he starts. He doesn’t even stumble on his words — good start, good start! Eiffel lowers his voice conspiratorially. “When was the last time you…” Hilbert wasn’t going to answer that one, not a chance. 

Hilbert still doesn’t seem to get it. He’s growing impatient, hating Eiffel more and more by the second, which means that Eiffel doesn’t have much time left to make his point. _Great_ start.

He doesn’t know how saving himself from this embarrassment could possibly entail further elaboration. He bumbles forward anyway. “I’m kind of at the end of my rope here.” _Interpret that as you will_ . “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve _touched_ someone? And I don’t even mean like that —” Eiffel lets out a pathetic huff of air that should be a laugh. “— I’m talking about literal physical contact.” He laughs fully now, and it comes out strained. “I mean, last week Minkowski bumped into me while we were looking for another maintenance toolkit in the storeroom and, I swear to god, for that single split second I’ve never wanted to —” He breaks off, coughs.

Hilbert looks at him wide-eyed. Two long seconds pass — _hello, mechanical churning, hello, electronic hum_ — and then, a completely alien sound. Hilbert laughs, deep and slightly unrestrained. That _oho-ho-ho_ laugh that Eiffel was sure was only a stereotype. Hilbert throws out a word that Eiffel assumes is some Russian expletive. 

It’s Eiffel’s turn to go silent, to stop in his tracks. His smile drops, his embarrassment only mounts. “What?”

“ _Drugs_ , Eiffel, I thought you were after —” He laughs once more and then recovers, sighing. “Always knew it would be something with you, but I never guessed that it would be _this_.” 

Eiffel suddenly finds himself on the defensive. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _Some people aren’t equipped for deep space_.” Hilbert echoes. He’s too amused by all of this for Eiffel’s comfort.

The small part of Eiffel that had actually bothered to think ahead saw this interaction going in one of two directions. What he’s getting now is unprecedented, but that in itself can’t be unexpected, can it? This is uncharted territory, maybe just for Eiffel, maybe for anyone. 

“Me having —” He comes in too loud. Eiffel lowers his voice. “— _needs_ has nothing to do with me supposedly cracking up from being out here.” 

“Of course, Eiffel. Of course.” _Piece of shit._ Hilbert considers him for a moment. Eiffel takes note of how close they are. “Didn’t think you were the type, really.”

That last part is said with a sense of experience that Eiffel — _Goddammit_ — can’t help but find himself interested in. 

He has an endless supply of questions, but the one that stands out the most is _you thought about me?_ There’s no way he can say that out loud. “You’ve done this before?” Another question that Hilbert won’t answer. It was worth it just to see Hilbert’s expression twist.

“No.” _Liar_ . Three deep space missions under his belt, he had to have had _some_ type of illicit encounter at one point or another. He’s a person too, after all. (Wishful thinking?)

Eiffel tries to relax, tries to recover lost ground. He’s gone farther than he thought, considering. Why stop here? This requires a bold maneuver. 

“You’re always like this,” he starts. Eiffel brings a quick hand to Hilbert’s side, slides it up to rest on his chest. Hilbert goes rigid, immediately uncomfortable. _Ha-ha_ . “So damn _evasive_.” Eiffel notes the warmth on his palm. Christ, it’s been a while. “You act like you’ve never thought about this before.”

Alright, out with it: Eiffel certainly _has_ thought about it. _A year, two months, and twenty-one days is a long time_. A long enough time to acknowledge that in these dire straits, maybe Hilbert’s specific appeal (all sharp edges, glowering looks and low intonation, no compromise) did something for him. Whatever change of heart Eiffel had, scarcity played a part. That’s undeniable. 

Eiffel smiles and glances up like he’s taking a chance. Hilbert’s done being amused. This interaction has lost its initial humor, and now he’s glaring. Still, Eiffel doesn’t lose hope that easily.

“What is the objective here?” 

Eiffel scoffs. “I think it’s pretty clear what my _objective_ is —”

“So, you take care of your ‘needs’ —” Again with the disapproval, with that lecturing tone. “— and in your mind I am perfectly compliant, of course — we both wash our hands of this until you decide to come in and bother me until you get what you want, _again_ , three days later?”

Eiffel does a little nervous laugh as he exhales. “That’s —” he tries. Stops. Starts again, smiling wider. “C’mon, doc…” And that’s the best he can do, really.

His other hand reaches up, lightly, carefully, his fingers touch the frame of Hilbert’s glasses. Eiffel’s trying for a comforting gesture, vaguely flirting. His fingers barely brush against cheekbone before Hilbert moves, quick, almost imperceptible.

Eiffel finds himself caught in Hilbert’s grip, a firm hand clamping his chin, angling his head upwards. The hand that was laid on Hilbert’s chest remains but the other flinches back. He got the message. (On the other hand, their faces are now just inches apart. Romantic!)

Eiffel feels very good and very important. Hilbert looks like he wants to tear him to pieces. 

“Just look at yourself.” He says this with unbridled contempt. “You are deranged, Officer Eiffel. Not of sound mind.” 

_Ah, verbal abuse as foreplay_ . The gross exaggeration is probably part of that. But of course, Hilbert wouldn’t know what’s normal and what’s not. Eiffel giggles through a closed mouth. His hand twists, tightening on the fabric of Hilbert’s uniform. Gazing up at him with open amusement, Eiffel’s sure that he’s only proving his point. This is just _too_ good.

“Am I really that awful?” Eiffel’s an optimist, mostly. He can still make this work. “Don’t you think that you might even enjoy yourself? I’ll have you know that —”

“ _Eiffel_.” A stern warning through gritted teeth. He ignores this.

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to act like —”

Hilbert’s grip tightens. Eiffel’s jerked forward, he makes an embarrassing, tiny exclamation of surprise. Forced into even closer proximity with Hilbert, Eiffel becomes aware of the increase of points of contact between them. He takes a wavering breath, aware of how his chest rises and falls.

Nothing good ever lasts. Hilbert’s eyes are intense, boring into him. Very intentional. Eiffel’s face is held close, he can’t look anywhere else. He’s forced to take this. 

When Hilbert speaks, he’s cold and precise. Careful. “You think about fucking Minkowski? Go try to fuck Minkowski.”

(Dead quiet. Or maybe Eiffel only imagines it.) 

He feels hollow upon impact. No time to think. A spike of panic pushes him to close the distance, to truly degrade himself. The sudden jolt causes Hilbert’s grip to loosen for the single crucial moment that Eiffel’s last-ditch maneuver requires.

One hand at the back of Hilbert’s neck, Eiffel presses forward into an ugly, floundering kiss. Fingers seem to scramble, frantic, digging into skin. _Please, please, please_.

Contact lasts for less than two seconds. Eiffel barely registers it himself before he’s shoved away. The edge of the table behind him slams into his back. Equipment clatters and Eiffel, wide-eyed, dares to look at Hilbert. 

Hilbert stands stock-still, seething. Eiffel focuses on the slow rise and fall of Hilbert’s shoulders as he breathes, just to avoid looking him in the eye, but a renewed sense of self-hatred overtakes him and he _has_ to face this. He flicks his gaze forward and he and Hilbert lock eyes and Eiffel realizes that he could vomit. 

(Part of him wants to _do it again_ and _not take no for an answer_ and _beg_ and—, and—, and—!) 

Eiffel sees Hilbert’s raised, flat hand, and then subsequently feels a sting of pain on the left side of his face. His head twists sharply with the impact, and he’s sent reeling to the right, wobbling on his feet, more a result of his own nerves than the actual force of the blow. The stumble creates at least three feet of space between them, and Eiffel imagines that the farther he is from him, the less likely it will be that Hilbert will kill him where he stands. 

Killing. That’s too harsh, but then again —

The nightmares, those pervasive daytime — no, no _daytime_ in space, just _waking_ — terrors, the skewed sense of time, the dulling of the senses — yes, it would make perfect sense if Eiffel’s ability to weigh the need for gratification against consequences was affected. This changes nothing. 

Eiffel doesn’t know why he feels that he’s in danger. Hilbert still hasn’t said anything. Eiffel tears his eyes away from the laboratory door, his only escape, to look over his hunched shoulder.

Hilbert hasn’t averted his gaze, glaring. Eiffel notices a pattern. So, he’s been temporarily violated and left embarrassed against his will. He isn’t murderous, and yet Eiffel still can’t let go of the irrational little thought that he’s about to drop dead. 

Is this shame? Ah-hah, it’s been a while.

Eiffel feels like he has to say something, not to fix but to alleviate. But what to say? Hilbert looks at him with pure and utter contempt upon his face. _You animal_ , it says.

This is definitely shame, the aftermath of an uncalculated and desperate act. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ . But Eiffel doesn’t want to grovel. “What did I —” That doesn’t work either, because he knows exactly what he did. _What’s wrong with me?_ is what he really wants to ask, because he doesn’t have answers and there’s a not-insignificant chance that maybe Hilbert does. 

_Not of sound mind._ Right, Hilbert would just tell him that he’s crazy. Would it be reassuring?

Before Eiffel can think further, Hilbert looks away, choosing instead to stare at a wall. “Leave,” he says.

Eiffel really can’t do anything except comply. When he hesitates, just for a second, embarrassment comes back up in a second wave, like an onslaught of nausea.

 _I can never come back here again,_ he realizes. The thought is terrifying, then sad. And then Eiffel almost laughs aloud at the realization. Hilbert got his wish, after all! And all it took was Eiffel being shamed into adhering to the most basic of social norms. Who would’ve thought? — Eiffel, _ashamed_. 

He’s quick to leave. The laboratory is claustrophobic, anyway. When he has one palm on the door, just itching to twist the handle and _get out_ , Hilbert speaks up from behind him.

“Officer Eiffel.” It’s just a formality this time. Maybe there’s some malice behind it, Eiffel would suspect so. “We will not speak of this, yes?” 

Eiffel turns back, prepared to scrutinize. He really wasn’t expecting this. Hilbert isn’t facing him. He sees him in profile, unreadable, and Eiffel can’t figure out what he means. He stares a moment longer, then remembers that he has to answer. “Of course.” His voice is stilted, he almost doesn’t recognize it. 

_Okay, leave, go, go, go._ That instinct is still there. The handle twists, the door slides into the wall and closes with a hiss after Eiffel steps through. 

He urges himself to walk through the empty corridor, one unwilling foot in front of the other. There’s the tiniest, vaguest sense of persecution hanging above him, and he recognizes that it’s irrational. He still allows himself to walk faster. Realizing that he unconsciously made the choice to head back to the comms room, he stops in his tracks.

Eiffel curls and flexes his fingers, suddenly restless. Another moment of pause. 

It’s not quiet. 

He tilts his head upwards slightly. “Hera? Are you there?”


End file.
